Reasons My Father Rocks, #3,647 May 15, 2006

My brother bailed at the last minute, which meant an extra seat next to my dad at the Yankee game on Saturday.

NY 1 predicted rain, but I ended up in a tank top enjoying the sun, a $5 hot dog and a chance to bond with my father.

At the top of the fourth inning, a trio of beefy, clearly intoxicated young men parked themselves in front of us and promptly ordered 2 rounds of beers.

One of them, a redhead in a tight “It’s Okay to Stare” tee-shirt and a backwards Oakland A’s cap, kept turning around to look in my direction.

Eventually he began hitting on me. Shamelessly. In front of my father. “Wow, those are some nice long legs you’ve got there.” “Anyone ever tell you you look like that Buffy chick?” “Gotta love a girl who knows her sports.” “So, what do you do for fun over on the Upper East Side? I bet you’re a party girl.”

I tried my best to politely decline his attempts at flirtatious conversation as a) he couldn’t have been farther from my type, even if I didn’t have a boyfriend, b) he’s an A’s fan and c) my father was sitting a few centimeters to my right.

Eventually, when Red turned around to give me a hug after the Yankees scored a run, my father leaned down and, very sweetly, said to the guy, “Excuse me man, do you mind? We’re kind of on a date.”

Red didn’t bother me the rest of the game.

I love my father.